Fire and Ashes
by UndeadPhantom
Summary: Captain America and Black Widow are partnered up. Will their partnership be a success, a flame that burns out everyone in their path? Or will they end up in ashes? Immediately Post-Avengers and Pre-TWS. First story in the "Blaze" series.


**Disclaimer:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, The Avengers,_ and _Avengers: The Age of Ultron_ are property of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This story was created for my personal, as well as others', personal enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

 **Rating:** M (for language and depictions of torture)

 **Authors Note:** Alright, a few things. First of all, I'm new to this thing, so I look to other fanfictions for help. I apologize if that is against the rules. Second, as said in the summary, I am strictly Romanogers. So if you read and start complaining about how I matched them, then just go away. Don't hate. Thirdly, there may be a little, or a lot, of information in here that is incorrect. Sorry about that.

 **Chapter 1**

Steve Rogers was in a world of different, and he was lost. Ever since he woke up, he was discovering little changes everywhere he went. Like how television sets had color. Or how people talked and acted. Or how people had little devices that they redundantly tapped or spoke into.

But compared to his situation at SHIELD, it was nothing. After the alien attack led by Loki, he had agreed to join the association. The agency was completely filled with people, in white lab coats, black uniforms, or even weird vests that said STRIKE on them. It was embarrassing and annoying how he had to occasionally ask someone where Director Fury's office was. And, people being how they were, just told him to "go ask someone else." Fortunately, a few agents were kind enough to point him in a vague direction of where to go.

When he finally reached the right door, he sat in a little waiting room perching on the edge of a cushiony black chair. After a few minutes of waiting, the door slammed open, and a man with spiky brown hair marched out of the room, obviously fuming.

He stared after him in shock until a voice from the room called "Come in."

He tentatively entered the spacious room. It had floor to ceiling windows with amazing views of the big city. Two long, rectangular lights were built into the ceiling, giving more light to add up with the natural light. There was a wooden desk in the middle of the room, with two chairs sitting across each other. In one, a serious-faced man sat, leaning back casually.

Directory Fury cleared his throat and said "Rogers."

Steve immediately replied, "Sir."

"Have a seat, and get comfortable. You're gonna be here a while."

Steve nodded and did as he asked.

"You are a valuable asset to us, Rogers. SHIELD is full of spies, but there are only few, and I mean _very_ few, soldiers." After a pause, he continued, "I want to send you on your first mission with someone, to see how this agency works. I wanted to set you up with Agent Barton, who you undoubtedly saw leaving this room. And although you both worked well during the Chitauri invasion, he doesn't think that this would work. He said, and I quote, 'Go get someone else to do your damn teacher jobs. This isn't what I signed up for,' end quote. The mission I want to send you on is for my best agents. This is because I want to test your abilities, your strengths, and your weaknesses. So he was my first choice. My second choice was Natasha Romanoff, who you know as Black Widow. She is more difficult, but she is my best agent."

At this, the woman in question stepped out of the shadows. He had seen her a lot before, during the Chitauri war. She was beautiful, but deadly. It was only due to sheer willpower that Steve was able to only glance at her and be able to look away.

But, unlike Steve, Natasha was unabashedly glaring at the super-soldier, which made him extremely uncomfortable. She crossed her arms as Fury continued.

"Miss Romanoff already agreed to work with you. So, if you agree as well, then I will be able to assign you your mission."

Steve studied his new partner, who was cool and collected. She radiated power, not evil, nor good. "I agree," said Steve when he looked back to Fury.

"Good," the other man said. "Your mission," a hologram appeared in the center of the desk, lighting up the room in a light blue, "is to take back, with force if necessary, some stolen alien weapons from the battle in New York. They are located in a building in West Dulwich, England, and there's an estimated force of a hundred in there. Once you leave the site, you won't be going back. Unless if it is absolutely necessary. Also, there will be that one and only mission, and no others." He turned to Black Widow. "And that means you, too, Romanoff."

He turned his attention back to Steve. "There are some things you may need to know. Natasha already knows the stuff on there. I'll leave you to it, soldier." He gave a curt nod, and he and the other agent left the room.

The hologram showed a picture of a man in an expensive looking suit who was holding up a fist. His face was a mask that let away no emotion, but he could tell that he was cold with barely restrained anger. A dozen men were standing behind him, who he could assume were his bodyguards. He tentatively made a swiping motion, going right to left, with his index finger. The hologram fluidly turned to the next picture. It showed a decent sized crowd of men, all of them carrying human-sized metal boxes. They were heading to an elegant marble building from an old, but not obsolete, pirate ship. It was decked out with shiny cannons, dozens of machine guns, and a missile launcher. And on the mast, a giant green skull stood out on a flag, the background red.

He committed it all to memory before swiping to the last page, which was the most horrifying of them all. It depicted a half open crate, mostly dark but radiating malevolence. At a closer look, he could see what looked like a dog sized _thing_ with glazed gray eyes. Gleaming in the little light, he could see extra sharp fangs.

To prevent himself from seeing any more than that, he quickly turned away from the hologram, wincing despite the fact that there was no threat. He walked out the door, not bothering to turn off or shut down the hologram device. Even if he could figure it out.

He was immediately shoved into the wall that divided the waiting room and Fury's office. The raging face of Agent Romanoff filled his vision.

"On this mission, we don't talk unless we have to. We don't communicate in _any_ way. We go in, we complete our task, we get out, and we don't see each other anymore. And stay out of my way. Got that, Rogers?"

He swallowed audibly and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

At that confirmation, the female agent walked off, her destination unknown.

* * *

Clint Barton was definitely the best archer in SHIELD, perhaps best in the world. But ever since Loki fucked with his mind, he couldn't focus or concentrate, especially not in archery. At the moment, he was in gym. There was a bullseye hanging on the wall across from him, about forty feet away. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He lifted his bow and sighted down his target. He carefully took an arrow from his quiver and fitted it onto the string. He eased it backwards until it reached his ear. The gym door opened and Clint jumped and shot his arrow wildly, and it made its way into the ceiling.

He watched Steve come in, oblivious to the fact that an arrow had just whizzed by him. The super soldier made his way to the punching bags, his shield nowhere to be seen. Not bothering to wrap his hands, Steve started punching, making the bag swing in wide arcs. However, it was obvious that he was holding back.

Steve punched in a pattern. Two light jabs (though it would break someone's bones if they ever came into contact with it) followed by a powerful hook or uppercut. If he did go out of pattern, it was to do hundreds of quick punches, his hands in a blur as they swung out.

After watching for a couple minutes, Clint decided to make his presence known.

"Ahem," he said.

Captain America kept right on battering the bag.

"You know, for someone with an enhanced body, you don't seem to hear me very well."  
Steve sighed and finally relented on his punching, turning around to face Clint. "What do you want, Barton?"

"Well, I was _going_ to ask you to spar, but I have a feeling that you don't wanna."

The other man looked deep in thought for a moment before nodding.

"You sure?" the archer quipped. "Because I don't wanna have to call the medics after you back starts hurting, Grandpa."

The soldier didn't let that faze him. He stepped onto the gray sparring mat without a word, waiting for Clint's move. The man didn't hesitate to follow him, more than confident enough that he would win. After all, hadn't he just seen how the man fought?  
Unlike Steve, though, he was just a regular man. So after stepping up, he immediately went into the corner of the mat to wrap his hands. After doing so, he took his spot on one side of the mat while Steve took the other. The mat itself was twenty by twenty feet long, which gave them a lot of space to move.

"Gear or no gear?" Steve asked.

"Does it look like I have gear?" he replied.

"No."

"Now there's your answer. Let's start."

Steve knew that there was a good possibility that he would lose, but he chose to ignore that. He believed more in a fair game than in winning.

He also knew that fighting styles were different, and that he couldn't win by brute strength. He would have to be tactical.

He started off as Barton saw him do before, doing two jabs and a really soft uppercut. His opponent took a step back, relaxed and calm, easily dodging his punches. He knew that would happen. He made a purposely clumsy roundhouse kick, fast, but with no form. Clint took his foot and pushed upwards, perhaps trying to get him onto his back. But Steve was no ordinary man, so doing that only made his kick go higher. He then made his leg go crashing down in an axe kick, aiming for nowhere in particular. **An axe kick is a kick that goes from up to down.** He knew that Clint was on defense mode. He would have to fake clumsy offense until Clint took it up.

He stepped his game up a tiny bit, aiming for the hits, but still going light. He changed up his usual combination, doing one jab with his right hand (which was blocked), a hook with his left hand (which was dodged), and an uppercut with his right hand which struck Clint in the chin, maybe not hurting him, but obviously enraging him.

Steve was still on the offensive, though. So far, Clint hadn't even made a single attack at his opponent yet. So Steve played along. He did a round house kick, light but fast, a back kick, and a jumping snap kick. **This means a kick that goes diagonally toward the middle of a person's body, a kick that you have to pivot on one foot and shoot your leg out at the opponent, and a jumping kick that is the opposite of an axe kick, going down to up.** All of these were blocked, except for the jumping snap kick, which struck the agent in the chin.

The archer didn't fall, however. He did a graceful set of flips, and landed on his feet, glaring at Steve. Clint had a small bruise on his chin, in the process of turning purplish black.

He came straight at the super soldier, but Steve was prepared. He blocked a series of punches and kicks easily, getting some of his own hits in on Clint in the process.

Then, Clint landed a right hook that hit Steve's cheek, and then another roundhouse kick to the same side of his face.

Steve didn't really feel it, but he swayed on his feet in an attempt to look like he was about to black out. He was a horrible actor, he knew that, but maybe the archer would take the bait. Who knew?

Clint, as hoped, went for a finishing kick, an axe kick for his head, but Steve caught his foot in the process of going down, then swept his leg under the one Clint was balancing on. Clint fell on his back, and Steve pinned him.

"Does this mean I win?" he asked.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff watched the two men fight from the shadows. After Steve had beaten Clint, he pulled his opponent up.

"Good game," he said.

Clint just ignored him and became very focused on treating his bruises.

As Steve walked out of the gym, Natasha noticed the way he held himself, like he wanted to make himself look as small as possible. He looked at his shoes when he walked, which was very different from how he held himself during the war.

It was already time for them to leave for their mission, and Natasha was supposed to tell Steve that. When Steve reached the door where she was leaning against the door, she stepped out and said, "Rogers, it's time to go. Go put on your uniform, then meet me outside."

She had hoped for some kind of shocked reaction or something of the sort, but no such luck. The captain just nodded and walked on.

He watched the man walk off, the "perfect example of a man," the man who sacrificed himself for his country, a man that only saw good and bad. No in between. And in between was how most people at SHIELD worked.

Natasha saw how he straightened up again, for the sake of other people. Not to show off. Not to impress anyone. Though _many_ people were impressed, especially the females.

Shaking herself out of it, she walked to the quinjet outside where they would be riding to London. Though Captain America never saw outside of America, she had. So she would be teaching about the new century as well as being in a foreign land.

They would be the only ones in the quinjet. She was piloting, obviously. Natasha already had her Black Widow uniform on, a black leather jacket over a black tank top, with black leather pants and high heels. All black except her hair, skin, and eyes, which she really couldn't do anything about.

She boarded the smallish ship, only enough room to accommodate ten people. But then again, only two people would be on this one. She sighed, running her hand through her hand. Steve was definitely going to be hard to teach. He had morals. Morals that were _correct_ and _right_. There was no correct or incorrect in this world. No more so than right and wrong. She was definitely going to be reprimanded a lot, but she was Black Widow. She could take on any man.

Two minutes later, Steve boarded the ship, dressed up in his new SHIELD uniform. It had been made by the agency since the Chitauri war. There was a white star in the center of the chest piece, dull enough to almost be considered a gray. It was darker than his regular suit, the blue a navy color; white less bright, and the red nowhere to be found. But for a guy that was all good, she supposed he wore the darker colors well. The suit hugged his body, showing his well-toned muscles. Not so much that he looked like he was on steroids, but it was still pretty obvious. As her eyes drifted lower, she noticed that his pants were . . . _tighter_ than before. She couldn't help herself.

"Are those tights?" she asked, trying her hardest not to laugh by biting her lip.

Instead of getting any response, he just nodded, a blush present on his ears and neck.

She remembered what she had said earlier with a little bit of guilt, but she still stood by it. No need to talk. She had to be separated from Clint because of him. Well not _because_ of him, but she needed someone to blame because, frankly, she couldn't blame Fury, who had given her a much needed second chance.

Her eyes scanned over the rest of his uniform. His helmet was tucked under his hand, more reinforced to withstand more hits than its previous form. The back of his uniform held two strong magnets, made to hold the shield in place. The actual shield was no different from before; just polished to make it stand out – a symbol – to anyone that saw it.

"You ready?" he asked, breaking her out of her thoughts.

"Yeah," she replied. But you're gonna wanna hold on. Things are about to get bumpy."

She watched him sit on a side bench, holding on to a handle, before she went into the pilots seat and buckled her seat belt. She checked the gas tanks, engine, and everything else before finally taking off.

The quinjet tilted diagonally before launching off. She was pushed back into her seat for a bit before the pressure finally let up. She put the jet in stealth mode, the outer shields camouflaging with the sky before she set it on autopilot. It was already programmed to take them to England.

She got up from her seat, brushing her pants off for no particular reason before sitting down on the bench across from Steve's. Funny how she could call him Steve in her mind when he was there, but when he wasn't, he would call him "Cap" or "Rogers." She couldn't possibly be getting used to him already. It had taken Clint _years_ for her to relax around him, yet here Steve was, not even having to do anything to make her this way. Pathetic. She picked up her shoulders from their slouched position, bringing up her alertness levels higher, and put on one of her many masks. This one was of calm seriousness.

"We'll be there in about five hours. Our mission, like you know, is too retrieve the Chitauri weapons from the building. The weapons, which you have not been informed about yet, are very important to get. Fired once, it would disintegrate a human fully. A city would be destroyed in hours. It should be easy to determine if a weapon is an alien one or not, it looks, well, _alien,_ and you saw it during the war, so, that's that."  
"Who's driving the quinjet?" asked Steve, nervously glancing toward the front of the ship repeatedly after she had finished.

"Oh, no one," she said, but after Steve gave her a look, she added, "it's on autopilot."

He relaxed a little bit, though not fully convinced that they would be completely safe. He wouldn't make eye contact with her, which she thought that he did during his time in the army. He probably was used to that. However, a lot of how she read a person was by studying their eyes. Also, she got a lot of power with her stare. If the person looked away, they were obviously intimidated, which would decide what kind of person they were.

"You really that afraid of eye contact, Rogers?" she asked, after a while.

He shrugged. "Not really, but I don't see why we need it. Just in and out, remember?"

Again, that flare of guilt. She had been acting out of an unreasonable rage, and decided to take it out on him. But, she had also meant most of what she said. Most of it.

They were silent for the next three hours, her catching his sky blue eyes flickering towards her every few seconds. That left her alone in her thoughts. Which was bad. Her mind danced all over the place, thinking about her past and Clint and Fury, but mostly her past. She had been countless things throughout her life. During her training at the Red Room where she had lived, she had been an actress, seductress, an assassin, a spy, a dancer, a fighter. She had been everything. And because of it, the Red Room, she had blood on her hands. It didn't matter that she had been forced to do it. She had gone willingly without having to be forced, without having to be convinced or threatened. She had known there was something evil, something wrong, but she never did anything about it. Because she liked it. Enjoyed it. Savored it. In her eyes, it had been freedom, the joy of never having to abide by any laws. She had never been restricted or held back. She was ruthless and deadly. She didn't feel, didn't hold back, and frankly, didn't care. She had been made to do it. She was Black Widow.

But then Clint had found her. He was supposed to kill her, to eliminate her because she was a threat to SHIELD and the world. She was an asset for the wrong side. But he decided against it. Against his orders. Despite Fury being one of the ones who had sent him on this mission, he still gave Natasha a chance to clean the blood of her hands, to wipe out the red in her ledger, to work on the right side this time. She had learned to be better, to feel, and to care what happened because of her actions. And though she was still deadly, she knew what side she was on. And all of that was because of Clint. That was why, she told herself, she was so angry that they were being separated. Not only that, but she was supposed to be mad at Clint himself. After hearing that Captain America was joining SHIELD, Fury had had a meeting with Clint and Natasha. The master spy told them that he was thinking about pairing either Clint or Natasha to teach the newbie how SHIELD operated. Clint, being stubborn as hell, didn't want anything to do with it. He thought it would be a disaster.

Even Natasha herself, who was usually okay with anything and everything, thought it was a bad idea. Clint and Natasha were the exact opposite of Captain America. The soldier had never done anything wrong, never killed anyone for the feeling it gave. Natasha had a bad past, and Clint used to have a bad reputation. He had helped commit crimes he had thought was helping himself. But it wasn't. He was digging himself deeper. After finding out his mistake, he still went on. He put himself out as an assassin. And a good one he was. He had washed his hands in red, spilling blood relentlessly. But then Fury had found him. Fury had found them both.

Natasha and Clint were on the line between good and bad, not tipping any side of the scale. Steve, on the other hand, was all good and happiness and blue skies and sunshine and rainbows. Sure, he had been through some tough times, and on the receiving end of bloodshed. But still, sometimes receiving was easier than giving or committing. Like presents. . . and killing. The threat of death was always there for him, but he never had the horror of actually _doing_ it forced upon him. He was the golden boy of America, the one that didn't like bullies. He never was one.

Thankfully, she was broken out of her thoughts. But what was happening in the present wasn't better than what had been happening in her head.

When Steve heard the alarm, he immediately stood up. Red lights flashed across the entire quinjet relentlessly blaring. He looked to Natasha in front of him, who had stood up as well. She immediately made her way to the wheel, checking the panel in front of her that had all sorts of gauges and tools and electronically wired devices.

Right when he was about to ask her what was happening, she answered his question for him.

"The sonar picked up three heat sources coming our way. We're going to be having some company."

He nodded, placing his helmet over his head.

"Open the up the ramp. I'll get us one less thing to deal with," he said.

His partner nodded, understanding what he wanted to do. After opening the jet's exit, Natasha gave him a grim nod before Steve ran and jumped out the opening.

* * *

He landed on a huge aircraft, about the size of a school building, meaning there could be a lot of people on it. It was almost like a jet runway, except without the runway. . . and the jets. But the shape was very similar to one. The supposed "floor" was made of concrete and there were wooden crates and iron chains. Underneath him was another level, which was a normal, if anything could even be called normal these days, jet. Except the "normal jet" was about a hundred feet wide.

As if they read his thoughts, fifty people appeared, seemingly out of nowhere if it were to an untrained eye. But Steve was more than trained.

Before anyone could shoot, pulled out his shield and curled up behind it. Then, bullets started ramming into the shield, not making it dent, but it still hummed, soaking up the vibrations. After a while, went out of his cover, diving behind a crate. No sooner, the firing started up again. After waiting a while, three men on his left and five on his right came running towards him from where they had been behind other crates, guns raised but not shooting. That was a mistake. He took out a man on his left with his shield, tossing it like a Frisbee. And in a way it was. Just a really dangerous, metal Frisbee. The man fell unconscious instantly from the contact to his forehead. After the hit, the vibranium whizzed back to Steve's hand. He caught it and spun around to the five other men on his previous right, blocking bullets with time to spare. He ran towards his former left again, taking out the last two people with kicks to the face. He turned back to the five remaining men, who were all aiming their guns at him. They advanced forward cautiously, lining up in a V formation.

"Stop where you are and put your hands up!" one shouted.

Another said, "Drop the shield, Rogers!"

But Steve was already raising it. He flung it with all his strength to the person closest to him, and the shield hit with a satisfying crunch. It sailed back to him and, with incredible timing, caught the shield, jumped in a three-sixty spin, and released it again as he landed from his jump. It hit the farthest of the four men, the one on the back of the V, and it hit his chest, taking all the breath out of him. He flew backwards as the shield came toward the man in front of the one who had just dropped. It hit that one's side, making the shield's momentum change direction again, taking out the guy next to him, and finally coming back to Steve's waiting hand. There was only one left that stood in an immediate threat. This one was a little bit smarter than the others and started shooting, only to have his consciousness ended when Steve's shield connected with his face.

Then he ran. He didn't stop when more people started shooting. He didn't even notice that there were some women included, too. He just plowed through them, using his limbs as extra weapons. He only threw his shield once, when he was cornered by fifteen or so men. It had ricocheted around and felled about ten people before Steve had grabbed his shield and knocked the rest down like bowling pins.

But then the whole aircraft starting tilting.

The unconscious bodies started falling off the edge of the jet, only a handful able to grab onto something. Steve grabbed onto a metal chain, hanging on for dear life. It was easy to support his weight, but it wasn't easy to hold onto a metal chain when your hands were sweaty and one was holding a shield. He looked downwards toward the faraway ground. It was about twenty thousand feet below, instant death if he fell.

Suddenly, he felt someone kick his face. He looked up, thirty men in jetpacks surrounding him.

"Give up Captain," said the guy who kicked him.

Steve gritted his teeth and said nothing, kicking him in the face as hard as he could. The guy should've dropped, as he was unconscious, but the jetpack was still on, keeping him in the air. Another man took this as the signal to attack and started ramming his gun into the hand that Steve was using to hold on. He hung on, slipping inch by inch with each blow.

He was playing a game, getting them more confident with each second. Sure, he could die, but this was his only chance. Once all of the jetpack guys surrounded him tightly, he swung his body, forward and backwards, gaining momentum and knocking into some men in the process. When he gained enough speed, he let go of the chain flying gracefully to the unconscious man in the air. He grabbed onto his shoulders pushing the eject button, and the man dropped toward the ground, a parachute opened and gun in hand.

But then he started falling too. The jetpack had turned off without the guy on it, and he was dropping to his death.

Steve lowered himself into the gadget, legs awkwardly hanging from the too small harness. He pressed a button on the jetpack and it started vibrating. Then, bullets sprayed out from the sides of the jetpack, nearly hitting Steve's arms.

Air rushed around him, pushing him down and from side to side. His cheeks were comically puffed, his mouth open and pushed back with the air pressure.

Ten thousand feet above ground level.

The men above thought he was dead, he assumed. After all, he had just fallen from an airplane.

He pressed another button, and this time it shot a missile out of a space above his shoulder.

"How the fuck do they fit that stuff in here?" he cussed softly.

Five thousand feet to go.

He wasn't aware of how the missile hit the aircraft he had been on, or how it had struck an engine that was keeping it in the air. Nor was he aware of how it was falling straight toward him.

He continued to press more buttons, turning on various projectiles and some rock music. Finally, he hit the correct button and he surged upwards. Towards the falling ship.

He hit the bottom side of the airship thing with an audible smack. He saw stars for a second before realizing where he was. There was a fire just next to him, the heat making it hard to see or breathe.

He turned the jetpack's power off, but he was still stuck to the aircraft's bottom. The ship was going down and taking Steve with it. He frantically turned on his jetpack again, trying to launch downwards, or _anywhere_ away from the jet, but he couldn't move. He was fighting a building-sized vacuum.

He knew there was no way out. On his first day on the job, he was going to die horribly. He closed his eyes, punching the bottom of the ship. It was ironic, how he was the one who had escaped death in his time, but he would die in this new one before Peggy died. He knew she was still alive. He had seen the files.

Peggy.

She had moved on after he went into the ice. It was almost unfair, how life repaid him with death after all his sacrifice. He should've been the one with Peggy. But now, he was going to die. He would join Bucky, his mother, and his father whom he hadn't even known.

He punched the ship again, the pain centering himself on Earth. Well, a couple thousand feet above Earth.

Then it hit him. Literally hit him. There was a hole on the bottom of the ship, next to where his head was. He had punched through the metal and a computer had smashed into his arm, opening up a large gash. Blood pouring freely, he dragged himself from his position to the hole. It wasn't easy. He had to reach out to the hole and push himself with the force he would usually use in an on-ground situation times ten. This process took him about three minutes, even though he was only a foot away from the hole.

And time was of the essence right now.

Two thousand feet to go.

He managed to break a decent-sized hole for him to fit through, his right knuckles now split and bleeding. He ignored his mangled hand and pushed himself through the hole with all the strength he could muster.

After scraping himself in various places that he did not wish to name, he was finally through. He looked for an emergency exit, a hatch, something he could go to to exit the aircraft. By now, he was floating a few inches above the ground. If he hit the ceiling now, it would be almost impossible to escape.

He grabbed onto a nearby desk. Fortunately, it was stably connected to the floor of the jet. He scouted his surroundings and found an exit that he could fit through. He air-swam to it, barely getting a hold on the door handle with his hands before his feet went up. He was upside down, the only thing keeping him from being stuck to the ceiling was his strength.

Good thing he was a serum enhanced super soldier. He pulled himself down to the ground with his hands, somehow managing to get his feet solidly on the ground. He pushed the door.

Nothing happened.

He pulled the opposite way, praying for a miracle.

Still, nothing happened.

Now, he was only a thousand feet away from death.

He hysterically shook the handle, kicking the exit a few times, too. But it wouldn't budge.

He scanned his surroundings a second time. Finally he found something he knew he could get past. There was a skylight directly above him, shining light as if taunting him to come and get it.

 _Oh, I will,_ he thought. He let go of the door handle, which was really a sideways hatch, now that he thought about it, and floated up to the skylight.

Five hundred feet until his death.

He started banging on the glass, knowing that he only had a few seconds to do this. At his first punch, the glass shattered, cutting Steve's skin in the process. But that was the last thing on his mind at the moment. He repeatedly hit the glass, bruising his knuckles even more, but he didn't care. He was almost to freedom.

Then he did it. He got out with only seconds to spare. He turned on his jetpack clumsily, jumping off the downed jet in the process. But he was far from safe.

As the aircraft collided with the ground, a humongous explosion ensued. He sincerely hoped that everyone on the ground had been evacuated. His jetpack, although it had saved his life, was definitely not built for speed. It surged upwards at about ten or twenty miles an hour, definitely not enough to escape from the explosion's wrath. But he kept going.

Even when he felt fire inches away from him, he kept going straight up. He needed to get to Natasha. He was buffeted with debris, but he was a man on a mission.

He never stopped, even when smoke veiled his vision. He was in the dark, and his sense of direction was almost gone without his sight. And he couldn't really breathe either. His lungs were more powerful than a normal person's but there was still a limit to what he could take.

He held his breath for an insane amount of time, about ten minutes, before he reached clear air. Although the men on the jet had needed oxygen masks to breathe, he could breathe this high up normally enough. He quickly spotted the small ship that his partner was on. It was gracefully swooping up and down, avoiding all the bullets and missiles that came its way. He flew to it as fast as he could, the idea of a break from the physical exertion very appealing.

Apparently, Natasha had seen him because the next moment, she was flying toward him.

But then his jetpack started sputtering and coughing. Then, free falling again. The quinjet was still a pretty far distance away. He knew he only had one chance at this. He flipped upside down, his head turning red with the blood rushing there. He was soaring head-first toward the ground. He waited until he was at the same level as the quinjet. Although they were nowhere close to each other, at least they would still be on the same level. And no matter how useful it might be to take out the other aircrafts, he wouldn't be able to keep his or he would die.

Trusting Natasha's piloting skills, he pressed the eject button, and flew upwards instead of down. Turning upside down had made this happen. Then there was a moment of weightlessness before gravity took him back, claiming him.

* * *

Natasha felt a bang, _felt_ it as well as hearing it, on top of the quinjet. She suppressed a sigh of relief, one that was definitely called for. She had seen the other aircraft go down after a missile had somehow hit an engine. And he saw Steve literally flying out of it, somehow. And other than that, there was an explosion on land below her that could be felt up here.

She opened the ramp, and said, "Took you long enough."

"Well, I wouldn't say that." A man stepped into the quinjet, a jetpack strapped to his back. He was followed by two more men with the same equipment. "But the boss would be happy even if we _were_ late. He's very upset with the fact that your little buddy blew up our ship. But, who cares. We took out the great Captain America. That's something, right?"

After his small speech, the jetpack started spraying bullets everywhere, setting off alarms again. The lethal bullets ricocheted across the small area, crashing into the control panel in the front. She dove behind the pilot chair, ending in a smooth roll. Her cover was not very good, however. Bullets managed to make their way through gaps at the bottom of the seat. However, she still stayed. If she didn't, she would die. She grabbed a pistol from the bottom of the chair. She always had an under-the-seat holster. It was very useful in times like these.

She shot a few shots from behind her cover, her shots frighteningly accurate. However, they seemed to have some kind of armor on them. While under normal circumstances, they would have instantly died, here they were unaffected.

The men fired off more shots in her direction, hitting the gauges and switches on the ceiling. There was a hiss, and sparks rained down from the shot panel. Luckily, Natasha was behind the seat, so she wasn't burned, but the chair caught fire from the sparks. It erupted into flames, roaring with deadly power. She couldn't get out from her position, as doing so would mean getting shot.

The fire grew, aided by the wind from the open ramp. The entire chair caught fire, running onto the floor and walls close to it. She uncharacteristically squeaked when her pants caught fire, patting it out quickly. The only ways out were now engulfed by flames. She couldn't have gone into the bullets' way even if she wanted to.

Though the fire didn't seem to be spreading anymore, the air was soon filled up with smoke. The air became hazy, all oxygen being sucked into the fire. She couldn't breathe. Her only choice was to wait until Steve came and rescued her. Otherwise, she would die.

* * *

He landed with a soft thud on the top of the quinjet and right away he knew something was wrong. He could hear a distant alarm and the metal beneath his feet was warmer than it should've been. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the open ramp. He jumped onto it and landed in a low crouch. He raised his shield cautiously, ready to cover him if any danger came his way.

He slowly crept forward, the sound of bullets reaching his ears. He kept going forward, even when he started to feel the heat from the apparent fire. Then, the bullets stopped. He looked around, scanning his surroundings. There was nothing to be seen. He made his way to the actual fire and saw dark red hair out of the yellowish orange of the flames.

Natasha.

His eyes widened with the realization. He took a step back, preparing for the jump he knew he had to take. He gracefully leaped over the fire, the flames tickling the soles of his shoes. He landed on his feet without a sound and went over to the pilot's chair. He scooped Natasha into his left arm, still holding his shield with the right.

And that was what saved him.

Three men were hovering outside the quinjet.

"Say goodbye, Captain America," one said. He pressed a button and a missile shot over to the two SHIELD agents.

Steve held Natasha to his body and turned as much as he could with the shield still covering them. The missile hit, and his shield and back absorbed most of the impact. The air around him burned painfully and his back almost broke from the hit. His skin burned and his hair was singed. But that was OK. It would come back. The most important thing was to keep Natasha safe for now.

But then there was another rumble. He ran to the ramp with Natasha in his arms. One of the quinjet's wings was on fire, and it was mostly melted and black. He looked up. The men above him weren't too far. Just twenty feet away. He jumped straight up, not aiming for them, but for the top of the quinjet. He grabbed a ledge with his right hand, the one with the shield. It was strapped onto his arm, but his fingers could still grab the ledge.

Not intimidated by the weight of what he was carrying and the death that would follow if he failed, he pulled his load up, barely struggling with them. But then he faltered.

He was back in the 40's in the _Valkyrie._ He was in a situation like the one he was in the present. But this _was_ the present, wasn't it? It was too confusing.

He had to crash the plane. If he didn't the bombs would explode in New York. He had to make the choice. He couldn't let innocent civilians die. And Peggy's voice was there, on the radio. Telling him not to do it. Telling him to come back.

But he couldn't. Not without guilt eating him up, shame of letting selfishness consume him and override his instincts. He had to do this. Not just for them, the unknowing people in New York. He had to do it for him.

His fingers tightened on the joystick, pushing it down as far as it would go. He knew he would die. But it was for a cause. It didn't matter if he was in the middle of nowhere, where no one would find him or know what happened. He knew he would be the one that saved millions of lives.

The Nazi plane dove downward, toward impending doom. Then, suddenly:

"Cap! Cap! Get up!"

He knew that voice. He knew it from somewhere. It almost sounded like Peggy's voice. Not as in the accent, but in the way it sounded. Both voices were obviously feminine. They both sounded like a voice that commanded others, that controlled them if necessary.

Natasha.

He sat up with a gasp. Natasha was no longer unconscious and in his arms. She wasn't even on the plane. Where was she?

She clung to the wing with all her might. Her knuckles were white but numb. She couldn't hold on for much longer.

"Rogers! Get your ass over here and help me!"

"Yeah! One sec!"

"I don't have one sec!" she yelled back.

"Just hang on!" came his reply.

She heard a faint whizzing sound – his shield probably – and a thud.

She took a deep breath. Her hands were starting to slip, as they were sweaty from the effort. She had regained consciousness in the middle of her partner's flashback. The quinjet had tipped over, almost going upside down. She had rammed Steve's shield into the jet. He had been still holding onto it, like it was his lifeline. The shield had held him in place. She, however, had almost fallen off the jet. And here she was.

There was a muffled _oomf_ and Steve was standing over her, calm, but scared. It was obvious that his flashback had been to a very traumatic time. Maybe it was to when he was crashing the Nazi plane.

But she had other things to worry about. She was hanging by only her fingers now. She only had seconds.

"Grab my hand!" he commanded. She tried. He was too far.

Her hand just grazed his before returning to its original position.

Then, she fell.

And he caught her.

His hand was firmly holding her wrist. The pain was excruciating, but she managed to ignore it for the time being. Steve was leaning over the edge of the wing, his face red from the exertion. He slowly and carefully lifted her up with one hand, the other holding onto the wing in case he fell as well. But she trusted him. She trusted him not to fall, not to let her go.

He finally lifted her up and she scrambled farther inward to remain in a safer position. She released the breath she'd been holding the whole time and put her hands on her knees. She was exhausted, but she knew that Steve was even more so.

The jet was still trying to stay aloft, but with only one working wing, it wasn't very easy. But they still had time to think of something.

Then the jet tilted over again and Steve, who had been catching his breath on the wing of the jet, fell off. After he was off the jet, the vehicle didn't stop moving. It kept tilting, and tilting, until she, too, fell off.

Cool air rushed around her body, pulling and stretching her clothes and skin. The air pressure that she felt was almost painful. Her jaw hurt, and her ears popped twice.

And then something crashed into her and she was being lifted away. She kicked and thrashed against whatever the thing was. The thing had caught her from behind, so she couldn't see anything except for the quinjet and two other aircrafts.

But she continued to fight. She would not go down like this. But then, a voice came from the figure.

"Romanoff, you're _really_ making it difficult for me to save you."

She let out a shaky sigh of relief and rolled her eyes at herself. Of course. That was what Steve had been doing while she had been hanging off the jet.

Her relief was short-lived, however.

"I gotta land on one of those jets!" Steve said.

She sighed. Nothing was ever easy when it came to SHIELD.

Okay. So how was that for a first timer? Bad , right? I sick at writing action. :( Anyway, to those of you that are actually interested in reading this disaster, expect an update within two or three weeks. I'm a really slow writer Oh, and every chapter will have around ten thousand words. Okay, cya!


End file.
